


Where have all the flowers gone

by flowersaretarts



Category: Violets - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Crush, Drugs, F/F, Long Hair, Long-Distance Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, Love, M/M, Pure, Romance, f/f - Freeform, romantic, vurt - Freeform, vurt feathers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:54:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6265036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersaretarts/pseuds/flowersaretarts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blessing and the curse that is the distant love.<br/>The desperate find each other in feathers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I adore the helianthus because it follows the sun".

Oh, Rike! The purest. Her clean-cut words could raise me up and heal me, light me up like the Ace of Swords. 

"People look down at me, look up, look from the side, but you are standing face to face to me. We share the same ground.  
I miss you badly. Every day I tell myself "Stop. Don't be possessive. Don't be needy." But I can't hold back, can not write you a line.  
My dearest love.  
I am so guilty. Guilty of being so horribly jealous, doubting you, thinking you might just stop talking to me.  
It is easy. Just no more letters on the screen, just erase me, and that's it.  
I am afraid to lose you. If you only knew how hard I try to conceal my greed. I am addicted to the drug called "Rike".  
And if I lose it, the withdrawal might be lethal for me. The stakes are high, I am far from kidding."

L' stopped typing and slapped her cheeks with both palms a few times.  
She felt dreadful. She couldn't concentrate on reading anything longer than a six-word line, every noise except the sounds of the city behind her window annoyed her beyond her wits.  
Springtime. Dust, warm winds, insanity, epiphanies, losses.

"Pull yourself together".

L' licked the tip of a blue feather. It was long, thin, with the pink shimmer on its edges. 

"Not today, girl. She doesn't need you now. Otherwise, they both would be in, her arms around me, my lips against her skin, her fingers playing with my hair."

She deleted the draft and closed the page. She knew Rike had too much on her plate that day. And the day before, and last night, too. Rike was, probably, fast asleep somewhere on her mate's couch.  
L' reached for the shelf above her desk and turned the mirror over. A crumpled grey face stared back at her angrily. The weather was irritatingly dry, and L's soft curls turned into straight lifeless straws, which she brushed so hard as if she wanted it all gone.  
The dishes were done, three fingernails on her left hand had the polish peeled off and looked miserably.  
She poured the coconut rum into her tea mug and topped it with the remains of Martini.  
No toasts needed. Gulp, thud, click. The box unlocks. What do we have here, hmm?  
L' set the timer for an hour and a half and put the coil around her finger. Rolled it up and down, feeling its prickles. It was a Korean acupuncture ring she got eleven years ago and never used too much, but since the feather flights began it came handy for the jerkouts.  
The feather she picked was nothing like the sweet blue Cocoon. But boy was it worth the time.  
She put it into her mouth and prayed for the credits to roll faster.

"Marlow Entertainment presents:"The House of M..." 

I know, I know, right? Now, where the fuck are these two? It had just stopped raining. Hope they didn't stick in the mud again?  
I wrapped my arms around my shirt and hollered: "BOYS!" Then turned my head towards the spot of light. The car approached and the stern looking young man nodded at the back seat.  
I got in, pushing away the half-conscious skinny guy aside and slammed the door. 

"Where to now, L'?" the driver asked. "I haven't received any script, they just pulled us in and told to carry on. I am fucking exhausted!"  
"Just drive, Cas. We'll get to the nearest town, and I bet there will be a nice little B&B for us."  
"How can you be so sure?"  
"Because I wrote it that way, you silly fuck. Now, where's the bottle?"


	2. Down

"I have this sinking feeling...", said Peter.  
"When do you not have it?", was the reply from the bed. Jona was lying there, facing the wall, since they came in. "Where's that bitch?"  
"Shut up, Stroke."  
"She can jerk out any second. And we can't. We can't.", he rolled over to the edge of the bed, shouting "Why? Why can't we jerk out?"  
Casriel was ignoring him, he was peering through the hotel's window at the street.  
"She said, ten minutes."  
"CAS!"  
Whitehall leaped and hot-footed across the room to the opposite wall, his eyes popping out in fear. His long thin finger was pointing at the bed.  
"It's not your fucking feeling that is sinking, the bed! It's the bed!"  
He wasn't wrong: it was five inches lower than where it was a few minutes ago, when Peter held Jona in his arms in that very spot.  
"No way. This isn't supposed to be happening. We are in the Supplicant feather. There can't be any passages to other dreams. Unless..."

[11 months earlier]

She didn't expect the dream-recording session to last so long. She had to keep still for another hour, until every detail of the story was scraped off her mind. The money was good, never mind that it was going to be the bootleg. The stories were in demand. No one cared anymore that the characters weren't original. Au contraire, in those days the clients wanted some familiar faces, the ready-mades.

That didn't bother L'. She was aware that it was the plot and style that made "Cerberus" buy her short stories, not the well-researched personalities of the main figures.

"We're done here. Thank you for the cooperation. Have you decided on the name yet?" 

L' smiled. 

"The Perfect Supplicant".

 

 

 


	3. Rike

The Editor's office on the fourth floor. Ruby glitter and polished surfaces, the heavy stench of "Poison".

"We need more pink, love. I get it, you want to "do better". But the fact is that no one will pay for an obscure blue and yellow mix, it's confusing and overly complicated. Kids want to have fun, not get a mindscrew, which you are not really good at, darling. So, why don't you bring us some of your best? Something as hot as "The House". The Catholic theme sells well, you know I know you know it.

So were her final words. L', at the height of her cowardice, promised the Editor to come again on Sunday afternoon with a handful of nice pink and black stuff ("More meat, get fleshy like you mean it. and don't be afraid of extra black.") She felt a bit nauseated, at the thought of digging her archive for those grotesque improbable stories. And she was feeling guilty, having Rike in mind. She was her conscience.

***

She has found me. She told me she had been visiting my feathers for quite a long time before she saw me and decided to meet the person whose head was responsible for those theatres' existence.

**_"I am sorry to rush in, but aren't you "L. Stone"?_ **

The name L' was my mojo. I had other names before and not one stuck with me. I wore it like skin.  

Finding me wasn't rocket science. My icon was a drawing of my characters, and my digital footprints were scattered all over the Wired. I haven't dived into her immediately, neither did she. We were like animals, sniffing one another, getting used to the scents and colours. But we barely noticed how 90 days passed before we became inseparable. 

We were like animals, sniffing one another, getting used to the scents and colours. But we barely noticed how 90 days passed before we became inseparable. 

***  
We lay on the mattress, her arm round my shoulders, my legs held tight between her legs. Fully clothed, under two thick green blankets - the window was open to keeping the air cool and fresh. The rain was less violent than in the night, the morning always softens everything.  
Five minutes until the alarm.  
Then I would kiss Rike's sleeping face, her hand, stroke her hair and set her clock to ring in the late afternoon.  
A few more seconds - and I would be pulled out of our Azure Chamber, our blue joy.  
I would pull the feather out of my mouth and go on with my day.

The bleak copy of what I could be some walks down the street, a few turns round the corner to buy an unnecessary chocolate bar (because this is my reflex and my curse). This is how this reality works: you are a jaded blob with a tired smile to the most, a person to those few who can see it. Now I am the blob. I flop from A to B leaving marks behind me. Some blots and splashes make sense, some are even loved.

 

"My Rike. I wake up to think about her. Not her graceful lines, her long fingers or her hair, but about the mind and soul that could make her say what she had said to me. We could talk for hours and hours, day after day, and even though the words repeated themselves at times, we enjoyed every letter we read and wrote. My beautiful, brilliant friend. Her sharp wit and candid manner have never intimidated me, like it happened before with some people I had to deal with. She could confront, but never attacked, unbiased and open-minded, never rude or disrespectful. She could scold me for being unfair or blabbing nonsense without thinking, she could correct my spelling but it was done in such a way that wouldn't leave me hurt or offended. 

I could not believe I deserved her. Self-loathing had been an essential part of who I was. Years had been spent persuading myself I was a proud-for-no-reason, cold-hearted, egocentric piece of mediocre meat. It didn't take her more than two times to smash this crooked image and pull my head out of my arse. Such was her power, but the power was not over me, she was sent to me not to lead but inspire and ".

I stopped typing and chuckled. Rike would probably roll her eyes over the last passage. Or maybe snort over the "sent". That would make her a tool in the game of some unknown supernatural forces, who decided they need to save the royal me. Or me being a tool to help her unwind some kind of a mechanism. This is where both me and her would exclaim "bullshit!", are we a car-service centre or what. 

"Her voice, oh, I could listen to it until the end of time. It could be low and thick, viscid and smooth, and then she would giggle and it would be the sweetest and most gentle sound. She always worried she could bore me. My dearest love, each and every word you tell me is precious. Not because I am blindly, madly in love. You know that my eyes are wide open and your name is on my skin and deep in my soul. I won't make any gruesome analogies involving sharp objects and carving, let us leave that to the blood-lusting folks and their childish romanticizing of violence. Your name is fused into my cells, interwoven with my vessels and nerves. This is why it is not an insanity, I didn't lose my head or any other part of me over you. I found myself, instead."

 


End file.
